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The Bible warns us not to think of ourselves more highly than we ought. Paul even says that if someone thinks he is something when he is really nothing, he deceives himself. It’s a trap we all seem to fall into at some point in our lives. That’s when our dear Savior steps in and teaches us what grace truly means. God’s faithfulness is unmatched.

Our little typewriter in this week’s story discovers this truth as well. I pray you’ll enjoy this gentle parable and that it brings a smile to your face.

May I pray for a wonderful year for you, full of closeness to God.

My Life as a Typewriter

By J.K. Stenger

I once was a great typewriter.

A good one. Better even than a Remington, you know, those top-of-the-line typing machines from days gone by.

When I was first created, life was beautiful and so was I. At least, I think I was. My silver-colored frame shone with quiet pride, and unlike some of my companions I was endowed with a special ribbon that could produce both red and black letters. Each strike of my keys brought words to life upon the virgin white paper resting in my chassis.

My Creator used me to write stories of love, hope and forgiveness, sending them out into the world on eagle’s wings.

Life could not have been better.

That was, until things changed.

It happened one day when my Creator wrote a story about a garden with an apple, a snake and a man named Adam and a woman named Eve. They were forbidden to eat from a certain tree and if they did, they would surely die. But there was a snake who told them it was all a big, fat lie. Eating from that tree, he claimed, would make them the wisest beings in the universe and they wouldn’t die at all.

And, troubling as it was, Adam and Eve didn’t die, just as the snake had said. At least, not right away. According to the very words my Creator wrote through me, they lived for nearly another thousand years.

It puzzled me.

What if the snake was right?

And while my Creator was typing away on my keys, I pondered the conundrum. Wouldn’t it be something if I were the best and wisest typewriter in the entire universe? Surely, there could be no harm in that.

Of course, there was no tree of knowledge before me, and no snake offering an apple either. Still, that day I decided I wouldn’t simply let my Creator write everything through me as He always had. No, I would write my own story. What a wonderful idea it seemed. I grew excited; a strange new inspiration flooded my metal keys like never before. Doing things my way, I was certain, would lead to better results.

The next day, when He pulled me from my case, He had a smile on His face and greeted me with a pleasant, “Hello, little one. Today we will write important things.”

“What will we write about, oh Creator?” I asked in a smooth, slick voice, knowing full well that this would be the day I carved out my own way.

“It’s about the defeat of Satan,” He said. “The snake, you know.”

Perfect, I thought. I gritted my keys, tightened my ribbon, and prepared myself for what was to come.

My Creator cleared His throat, paused for a moment, and then spoke to Himself in a firm, determined voice:

How you are fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of Dawn!
You said in your heart, ‘I will ascend to heaven; I will raise my throne above the stars of God; I will sit on the mount of assembly in the far reaches of the north; I will make myself like the Most High.’
But you are brought down to Sheol, to the far reaches of the pit.” *

When He placed His fingers to my keys, ready to get out the word, I knew the moment had come. I resisted. 

Apple or no apple, I too would be elevated to the ranks of the most sublime typewriters up in the heavens where there is no rust and there are no breakdowns.

How are you fallen from hea—

The first words still appeared on the paper, but I did not give in. I resisted with all my typewriter might, straining to keep my keys from cooperating. I would not fall. I would not yield. I was on my way to typewriter glory. No, no, no…

I pushed harder still. As I glanced up at my Creator, I caught a deep sadness in His eyes; no, something more, too. Almost as if He already knew what was about to happen, as though it were inevitable. But there was no time to wonder. My chassis grew hot, every metal fiber tensing to its limit.

That was when everything went wrong.

I had not expected this. And then, to my horror and surprise, I broke down.

Several of my keys broke off instantaneously. Parts of my chassis ripped apart, and my ribbon mechanism lurched upward. My precious red-and-black ribbon snapped in two and was flung from my body, landing somewhere on the floor of my Creator’s office, useless, broken and fit only for the scrap heap.

Oh, the pain. It was unbearable. I wept tears of oil, and in that very moment I knew what I had done. This had been a terrible mistake. Then I saw it: a snake, coiled tightly around a printing press, hissing, laughing, jeering, as if he had just won a great victory.

“Oh Creator,” I cried out, “a mistake. I should not have done this. I am sorry.”

He looked at me.

Oh, His look. It pierced my broken frame. His eyes were full of tears as He slowly shook His head. Then He spoke in sober tones: “All have sinned and come short of the glory of God. You will no longer be part of My office.”

“What? No!” I cried. “I belong here, Creator. This is my home.”

But He was resolute, and in a voice barely above a whisper He said, “They are all gone aside, they are all together become filthy; there is none that does good, no, not one.”

Then He lifted me up and placed me back in my case. Angels came in and carried me out into the world, and there, outside in the world, I ended up in a thrift store, surrounded by like-minded machines, all broken, dusty, and foul.

I stayed there for only the Creator knows how long. Then, on a bleak, rainy day, a shrewd man came by. He looked me over, picked me up and grinned.

“I can make good use of this thing for my own purposes,” he creaked in a grotty voice.

I shivered as I watched him pay good money for me. I did not like the fellow one bit. Dark eyes. Fingers with long, dirty nails.

Dear Lord, what was happening now?

He took me home to his place, a lousy dwelling with a chilly wind blowing through and with unpleasant companions. At first, he made good on his word and set out to fix me. He did, somewhat. But not really. I was never the same again. He tried, but in the end some of my keys simply refused to work.

He grew furious. In a burst of frustration, his fist came down on my keys, causing further damage to my already weakened frame. Then he shrugged and said, “Who cares. It’s just a worthless thing.”

He still tried to write on me, but the sentences that came through arrived limping. At first he blamed my ribbon, then the paper, then me. I accepted the accusation quietly and typed exactly what he asked, even when he muttered that I was a horrible machine. In my own mind, I agreed with him. I was no good anymore. I had become a faulty, sinful typewriter.

He loved to write horror. Dark themes that spread fear and pain. Not the kind of work I was used to, yet it was all I could produce for him now. I wrote things like this:

The murdxrxr nxvxr rxisxd his voicx whxn he lixd. That wxs whxt unsxttled pxople most. Hx wxs such x horriblx fxllow. Xasily, thx crook of the cxntury, full of bittxrnxss xnd lust. But hx nxvxr shoutxd, nxvxr liftxd his voicx. Hx simply stood thxrx, quixt, biding his timx for bhis nxxt crimx.

When my new owner realized he could not use me for his sordid work, he was done with me. That night he carried me out to the junkyard and tossed me onto a pile of rusted metal.

“Good riddance of bad rubbish,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his greasy pants before disappearing into the night.

My metal heart shivered, more from loneliness than from the cold. The scrap around me mocked me in the cruelest way known to typewriters. My keys sagged in defeat, and my ribbon wept thick tears of black ink. Instead of ascending to the heights of typewriter heaven, I had been cast into a pit of despair, where I would one day be crushed into lifeless metal pulp.

“O blessed Creator,” I cried. “I am sorry. How could I have been so terribly foolish, trying to make it on my own and live without You.”

I did not expect an answer. How could I, after the way I had treated Him. Still, it was the first sincere prayer I had ever uttered. Until then, I had taken my Creator for granted. Only now, surrounded by jeers and laughter from the other pieces of junk, did I truly understand what I had lost. And with searing clarity, the words of the Creator returned to me: “All have sinned and come short of the glory of God.”

Yes, that was me alright.

That night I wept bitter ink. Ready to die, I buried myself beneath a plank of rotten wood and the remains of a discarded, rusted refrigerator.

That was when I heard the footsteps.

I recognized them at once. They were the gentle, measured steps of my Creator.

Was He coming to punish me even more?

He would have been right to do so. I deserved every humiliation, every kick, every cruel joke thrown my way. I was a desperately wicked typewriter.

“Where are you, my beloved typewriter?” I heard Him call.

My heart leapt. His voice was not angry, nor was it filled with the condemnation I deserved and fully expected. Instead, it was gentle. Kind. And, strangely enough, I detected something in its tone that could only be described as longing.

That could not be possible.

How could my Creator still long for me, a good for nothing machine?

But he called out again. “Typewriter. I came to get you and take you home with me.”

Home with the Creator. Was there still hope?

I pushed the rubbish aside and cried out, “I am here, Creator. Over here.”

He ran toward me with arms open wide and lifted me from the mess, a wonderful smile on his gentle face. “There you are, little typewriter,” he said. “I have had my eyes on you ever since the day you left my office.”

My heart pounded in my metal throat. I could not understand it. I could hardly believe it.

“Creator,” I whispered, “You still dare to touch my dirty frame?”

He smiled, ever so kindly. “Do you really think I would lose anything that truly belongs to me, little one? I will never leave you, nor forsake you.”

“But I have been so bad, Creator. So terribly bad.”

He nodded. “I know,” he said softly. “But now you are truly ready to shine. Now you will be a true, heavenly typewriter, for you have learned that you are nothing without me. This is the breaking process everyone who becomes useful for my Kingdom must go through.”

He placed his warm hand on my trembling frame. “And you will receive a new frame, little one. With new keys and an even better ribbon. It is my gift of holiness to all who belong to me.”

As he lifted me from the dirt, light broke through the darkened skies above and set my typewriter heart aglow. I was going home to be with my Creator.

Back in his office, he placed a fresh sheet of paper into me. His fingers rested on my keys, gentle and sure. When he began to type, the words flowed again. Everything worked. The keys worked again, smooth and beautiful, and the words appeared on the paper. Not my words, but His words through me. For the first time, I was exactly what I had always been created to be.

• Isaiah 14:12-15

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